


molecules wrapped in silk

by moroodors



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Bonding, Fiddleford Being a Dumbass, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mystery Trio, a whole bunch of the dumbest geniuses, an au because they actually talk to each other, brief descriptions of blood, brief descriptions of injuries, emotionally repressed brothers trying to express things, fiddauthor if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moroodors/pseuds/moroodors
Summary: a good tennessee man always stops for injured people in the middle of the road, no matter how battered (or familiar) they appear to be.(a mystery trio au)
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Stan Pines & Ford Pines
Comments: 38
Kudos: 101





	1. god of the margin

**Author's Note:**

> "the horrors of the night melt away, under the warm glow of survival of the day"  
> semi automatic, twenty one pilots
> 
> warning: there's descriptions of blood and subsequent injures, but nothing graphic. nothing really more than noting that they are there
> 
> don't be afraid to message me if more details are needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trunks aren't cozy.

Weaving silk between his teeth, Stanley Pines could create and destroy worlds with each tilt of his tongue and syllable he allowed past his lips. A skill of survival against worlds so hell bent on pushing him down. Keep his head down against the stream, lift his legs up, and let it carry him. Close his eyes so he couldn’t see the people drowning around him. So he couldn’t see how far behind he was from the ones he thought were right next to him, so he couldn’t see how far the bottom actually was, and how everyone was constantly teetering on the edge. One slip, and you’re farther down than you ever thought possible. 

(One could always go down farther than previously thought possible, thought Stan. One of the many truths he’s learnt over the years. You could be standing on the bottom of the river, among the rocks and the fish and the dead and next thing you know, someone’s gotten a shovel out and has begun to steal the dirt and sand beneath your feet. Putting it under their own just so they can see the sunlight a little better. Nobody would mind stepping on your toes if it could mean one more millimeter closer to the surface.) 

God of the margin, Stan understood pushing the limit. How many synonyms of the word “beautiful” someone needed to hear before they were ready to listen about his product. How the small amount of money he’s been able to make can last until next week. How many card games he could win before the thing he was betting was his life. How many days and months and years he could stay with his twin brother that felt Stan was suffocating and weighing him down but that Stan felt like if he couldn’t stay close with the brother he loved more than anything, then he’d be left behind in nameless town with parents that didn’t care about him.

Because that’s what it came down to, right? These worlds he created and ruins of others he’s destroyed, all conjoining to become an island in the middle of the rushing stream of life was never supposed to be a place just for him. It’s supposed to be for him and Stanford, who he still loves more than anything. They were supposed to sit next to the campfire, Stan telling stories of far off lands and Ford drawing the pictures in the dirt, just like when they were kids.

Instead, Stan’s mouth has left him astray, one of the angry citizens of the world he’s just crumbled has come back for revenge, and has resulted in him in the back of a trunk, cursing the silk in his mouth and praying for something sharper to have an easier time chewing through the ties. 

There’s blood leaking down the right side of his mouth, the side he’s leaning on, adding another level of difficulty that was not appreciated at the moment; but he was able to give a smile when he was forced to spit it out and see it stain the nice carpet of the car. Somewhere between seconds later or hours later, the tie finally slips and his hands come apart, severely purple at the wrists, but still whole. And that’s all he could really ever ask for. He spends some of his bottom seconds on shaking out his hands to try and catch some blood flow before working at the latch of the trunk, laggish fingers pathetically trying their best. There’s still blood coming from his mouth and it’s at a bump in the road that jostles his whole head around in a way that’s pushing the limit (he should know) that he realizes the specific reason why. A shaky palm catches the tooth that falls out. He discards it, figures that it could use a break after all the work it’s done.

His fingers start to bleed, in spite of the tingly feeling they still retain, and Stan begins to wonder how many inches of his skin have been stained red. How much of his original skin color can be seen. If, once he gets out of the trunk, he’ll be able to recognized. If Ford will be looking at him from the otherside of the mirror still (without his glasses, and a hungry look in his eyes, and a piece of silk falling from his mouth, but always the same smile, same laugh, same frown.) 

There’s a snap, a heartbeat, and then sunlight harsh enough that he has to squint his eyes. But he keeps them wide anyway, at the edge of blindness with hope, and he sees the asphalt. It’s perhaps the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, but it slaps him with an understanding that he has a precious few seconds to figure out what he needs to do next.

Looking at the road, the rocks and the paint rolling by, he figures the car can’t be going more than 30 mph. This is not a road of freeways speeding by as the summer air blew through your hair and you sang along with your favorite song that just came on the radio. This was the road of back traveled paths, the long way to Carla’s house as you tried for just every minute you could get with her before bringing her back home, one hand on the steering wheel and the other around her’s, sparing glances at the road to look over and see her, smiling at something past the window, farther than you can see. 

He can feel some papers strewn around him, maybe a sad attempt at a cover for the car, like he was a dog with a peeing problem. Grabbing the pieces of holy paper straight from the bible that they’ve become, he shoves them into his clothes, murmuring reassurances to himself and the meek paper that these will become sufficient padding and that his bones will definitely not become acquaintances with the asphalt. 

Next step: exiting the trunk. 

_You need to land on your back_ , Ford says in his ear, _That is the largest area on your body and can distribute the force of the impact. You’ll be less likely to be hurt. Keep your arms on your chest and scrunch up your legs like you’re letting the tide carry you. You don’t want broken bones that prohibit you from running away if needed._

“Okay, Sixer.” Ford always had this special way of explaining things in a way they made sense. Instead of weaving silk, he’d be building molecular structures for anyone who would listen (just Stan.)

He pushes the trunk open with a hand that has picked the wrong time to begin feeling again. Time to push the limit again, he decides as he keeps his arms around his heart and lets himself fall backwards.

He’s seeing the sky, heartbeat slowing to a crawl as Ford’s voice returns. _You need to roll as soon as you feel the impact of the ground. It helps to distribute the inertia and prevents you from sliding. If anyone can do this, it’s you, Stanley._

Everything flows at the languid pace of water before it snaps back to normal speed with a spack against his back, forcing breath out of him as he forces himself to roll and roll until nothing is in focus. Until the buzzing behind his ears stops. Until he can make a new world, outside the trunk, one he never thought he’d experience again. 

Stopping on his back, he heaves any breath of air within grabbing distance to try and regain what was knocked out of him. He’s splayed out, doing his best to float on the water, as he hears tires screech in a way that he knows someone just slammed on the breaks that have him sitting up and sinking back under the water, heart beating hard enough to be measured in decibels as it tries to get as much oxygen as possible before he hits the bottom of the stream again.

Over on the side of the road, scary close to hitting some of the innocent trees, is a pale yellow two door that looks like it's seen the bad side of a giant’s foot, judging by the imprints. He’s surprised it can run. In other words, nothing like the car he’s just come from. To confirm, he looks down the road that curves off into some other world and the trunk is nowhere to be seen. Others might have been angry that they got away, off someplace where they’ll never be punished; but, Stan can only smile. Maybe that’s punishment enough. 

“Hey!” The strong southern accent shocks Stan enough to jerk his head over to see the man that’s appeared outside of the car. How far had they driven? The last Stan checked, they were by the west coast. “Are ya okay?”

At least Stan could always rely on the south to help a guy out. This particular south was a tall and thin man in all the ways Stan wasn’t. Thin arms that couldn’t pack a punch, could be broken easily. Tall enough to be seen over crowds, be noticed. Lack of any stomach that could let him skip a few days of eating. Completely non-threatening. He even had a pair of small circular glasses perched on the end of his nose, at the other side of the spectrum to how a vulture perches. 

All of this amalgamated enough for Stan to answer confidently, without fear that the dirt beneath him on the river bed would be stolen, “No. Can ya help me?”

There’s a huff of “Of course!” and a slam of the car door, like how could Stan dare to imagine anything else, even think that the world was mostly filled with people who would see a man in the middle of the road and keep driving. 

He’s over to Stan fast, eyes flicking all over his body in an indifferent way that only a person of academia could. But don’t be fooled, there was compassion oozing out of every pore of this man. Lightish brown hair that reflected the harsh sun into something warm and dark blue eyes that ran under the guise of unassuming but held every meaning of the word “caring.” His glasses even reflected Stan as a scared teenager, not a homeless grifter. If Stan weaved silk and Ford built molecules, then this man forged keys, able to unlock any poor bastard’s heart. 

Seemingly already looking inside and knowing that Stan wants nowhere near a hospital, the man points farther down the road. Opposite of where the Other Car headed. “Where I’m stayin’ is just a few miles down tha road. I’m sure me and my roommate can help ya get back on yer feet.” He holds a hand out and Stan grabs it, getting hauled to standing. He just about falls over when the man puts Stan’s arm around his shoulder. They begin a half stumble to the car.

“The name’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket,” The man says, annoyingly not seeming strained at all. Maybe he carries textbooks around. “Yours?”

Stan’s feeling the best he’s been in a long time, so he snorts, breathing out a laugh that sends a stabbing through his chest. He might be more injured than previously realized.

 _Your rib is most likely bruised_ , Ford pipes up, _made Pre-Trunk when your assailant was kicking you. It causes pain when you breathe, but something like that wouldn’t be enough to break the rib. And no snapping sound was heard. Though, it is possible to be broken, so try not to move too severely before it gets checked out._

“That’s a mouthful,” Stan says in response to Fiddleford, mouth already full of blood, but down one tooth. “But I think I’m going by Andrew right now.”

Fiddleford hums in answer, like that was a normal thing to say. However, they’ve made the journey to the car and that was what’s important. With a little effort from Fiddleford, because there was a particularly large dent by the passenger side, the door was opened, and Stan was sat down as gracefully as a bloodied man could. Several seconds later, Fiddleford appeared in the driver’s seat and they were off, tottering down the road to some banjo music on the radio. 

As they went, they passed a lot of trees with a certain dark wood and dark green that didn’t exist in southern worlds. “Hey Fidds, where are we?”

“Gravity Falls, Oregon!” He smiles brightly and taps his thumbs against the steering wheel. And that sends a pang through Stan’s chest, remembering his car and that it's all the way near the border. He’s desperately wanting to ask to be dropped off at the bus station so he can get it, but he knows he has no money and that’s not a question that can begin a conversation, so he asks a different one:

“How’d a nice southern man like you end up all the way in Oregon?”

Fiddleford actually blushes slightly at that, accented with a hand scratching the back of his neck. “Ah, it’s my roommate actually. We were roommates in college and he really is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met!” He pauses a second, looking sheepish. “But we graduated and he moved to Oregon and I to California with my wife. He asked me to, ah, move up here a couple months ago to help with a machine he’s been buildin’. I’ve been livin’ here since.” 

“What about your wife?” Stan hadn’t been a passenger in a nice car ride in a long time and was able to lose himself enough in the southern twang and road that winded back and forth like a river that he could finally relax. Lean his head against the window and watch the trees blur together.

“Ah, ya know…” He drifts off, despite Stan not knowing. The banjo radio fills the silence as they go the rest of the drive. 

Soon enough, they make it to an island in the stream that consists of high ceilings and harsh angles. There was a nice yard that Fiddleford parked in that was, unfortunately, littered with debris that would make only the most dignified of scientists jump up and down in glee. 

Pointing over to a satellite rooted to the ground, killing the grass beneath it, Ford speaks up again. _That’s the type of satellite dish that can send radio waves far enough to reflect off of stars. The same kind I used for the freshman year science fair. Although, this seems to be a newer model. Could probably project the waves farther, see deeper in space._

Stan has surmised enough energy to get up himself and be able to limp after Fiddleford to the front door. There are a few steps that have Stan bringing plagues on their worlds, but Fiddleford is kind enough to have an arm that can help lift Stan higher. 

The inside of the house follows the same style as the outside. There’s books everywhere, painting alongside strewn pages to create a landscape of big science words that leave Stan not convinced they are written in English. The light source in this painting ( _Adding a light source makes the picture more dynamic_ , Ford reminds, adding the same stench of ink and late nights) is a fish tank against the far wall, tinging everything with an unnatural kind of blue light. 

Fiddleford helps Stan down into a ratty old chair that contains a surprising amount of comfort. “Sorry fer the mess.”

“No,” Waving a hand distractedly, Stan is busy trying to remember the last time he sat on a chair like this. Just a living room chair in a living room. Not the worn cushion of the Stanley Mobile. Not the stained wood he was tied to, zip-ties digging into his wrists. Just an unassuming yellow pillow. As soft as a hug. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice.” Reminds him of home, but Fiddleford doesn’t need to know that. 

The south offers a small smile, like he knows the meaning behind Stan’s words. Maybe he even knows the difference in how concrete and seat cushions feel. “I reckon the first thing ya wanna do is take a shower.”

Warm water. Stan nods, “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Leaning mostly on the wall, Stan follows Fiddleford to a bathroom not too deep in the house, between tables decorated with various glasses with substances and liquids to match and bookshelves stuffed beyond maximum capacity. The bathroom is small, built for the most efficiency. Fiddleford even leaves and comes back with a black t-shirt and sweatpants from his roommate, claiming he’s on an expedition until tomorrow and never wears these, so he won’t notice anyway. 

“Just holler if ya need anything, I’ll be close.” And with that, the door closed and Stan was alone in the bathroom. 

It was after a deep breath and a few sways that followed the current, that he looked in the mirror. 

The man was a stranger. There was still so much blood, stuck in his too-long hair and his goatee and crusted by his mouth. Staining his teeth and the spaces between and the space around. Beginnings of a bruise were on the side of his head, disappearing to his hairline. His eyes were darker than he remembered, in the way they didn’t stop moving except to see themselves. And Stanley isn’t skinny, but his cheeks have a hollowness, like a cave being sunken in, that suggests they want something else. There’s cotton falling from his mouth, mourning it’s previous life of being something luxurious. 

He looks old. 

Shaking his head, he goes into the shower and lets the hot water run over him. It’s unfamiliar, the way it goes down his back and to the floor. He thought he knew everything about water, the way he’s always drowning. Sitting at the bottom of the stream and hugging whatever meager pieces of dirt he has left. The way it trudges through the dirt and the red, pooling beneath his feet. Maybe that’s why: the water’s at his feet, falling down the drain and down below that. Farther than he could see. He can’t recognize the feeling of the water because he’s above the stream. Sitting on top of the waves and letting it rock him to sleep under a starry night that he’s forgotten the look of. This random man, FIddleford Hadron McGucket, has given Stan a raft and it’s been so long that Stan doesn’t know what the ocean spray feels like anymore. 

He touches his face and he realizes he’s crying. Probably not for the first time, but you can’t tell if you’re crying when you’re drowning. 

It’s about an hour or two when he shuts the water off, wrapping a towel around his waist to begin the next step. The mirror is too steamy to see anything. 

Rummaging through the cabinet and drawers, invading privacy, he finds an unused razor and scissors. He’s learnt to do this all without the luxury of a mirror, so he doesn’t hesitate with shaving his goatee, glad to see it go. Next, he feels about where he wants his hair to be, just by his neck, and cuts his hair. He’s really let his hair go, going on the amount that ends up in the trash. Any longer, he could have had something awful. 

He’s careful putting on the “roommate’s” clothing, mindful of his injuries. 

The mirror above him has seemed to become its own presence, the way Stan is so aware of it. Heavy and leaning down on his shoulders. His heart rate increases and palms feel sweaty because he’s scared to look in that mirror and still not recognize the man on the other side of it. Is he too far gone? 

Lifting a hand up, he wipes the steam. Focusing more on the little trails of water left behind before focusing on himself. The little circles and lines of water precariously sitting by themselves. A deep breath, and he looks at himself.

That breath catches in his throat, disbelief grabbing all the carbon dioxide molecules trying to escape, because just for a second, a beautiful, blissful second, he thinks he sees Ford. 

There’s a knock at the door, tentative and soft like the voice that follows. “Andrew? I heard ya turn the water off; do ya need me to wrap any of ya injuries?”

“No,” He says, still distracted with the mirror. But he manages to refocus and open the door. “I think my ribs are just bruised.” 

Fiddleford had been standing there, holding a box of bandages, looking happy as can be, hopeful with the kind of satisfaction that comes from helping a fuckup. That all quickly drained from his face, however, paling with an open mouth as quick as the box of bandages he lets slip hit the ground. 

Concerned, Stan starts patting his face. “What? Do I have something on me?”

Very noticeably, Fiddleford’s eyes track Stan’s hand. 

Over the years, Stan has found very few reasons for a person to watch his hands to that extent. The first reason was they thought he was cheating. Trying and failing to see a card pushed up his sleeve, or nails counting cards, anything. The second reason, similar to the first, was they thought he was stealing something. An extra bag of chips shoved up his jacket. A pack of gum in his back pocket. The third and final reason (that’s fallen in regularity over the years but still has seventeen years of experience drilled into him) that someone would be staring at his hands would be that they were expecting something more to be there. It was a surefire answer in the most experienced spot-the-difference players, surely to gain them hundreds of points as they went _one two three four five_ a pause, and then _five four three two one_ just to make sure. 

_Don’t you remember Ma telling you?_ Ford’s voice sounds far away, way up there on his high horse. _I moved to Oregon with a big research grant. I had a house built in the middle of nowhere to be able to study in peace._

“Your roommate wouldn’t happen to be Stanford Pines, would it?”

The poor guy, Fiddleford is still just standing there, mouth open.

Destroying a world where Ford didn’t tell his roommate about his twin brother, Stan sticks out his hand. “I’m Stanley Pines, nice to meet you.”

True to his birthplace, Fiddleford does not go up but south, paling some more as his eyes roll to the back of his head, fainting before Stan can think to catch him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got the idea for stan's inner logical monologue being ford from sherlock, where sherlock's inner thoughts that help push him and keep his logic on track is his brother, myrcoft. i thought of it and kinda fell in love with the concept, so i included it. i think it helps close the gap where there really isn't a "smart twin," but also highlights the fact that stan views ford as the "smart twin," so the "smarter" thoughts stan has seem to come from ford.


	2. spectroscopy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hurry, let's be friends before the mad scientist gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter i was pretty much just listening to luck be a lady from guys and dolls and that dumb "music makes you lose control" triangle thing. that's where my mind has been.

Stan was not a fan of losing consciousness. 

It was unsettling, going back to the memory and having a gap missing. Ending one spot and beginning in another. Moments forever lost, the world still turning, but you were out of commission. The first time it happened, Stan was five years old and Ford had gotten a cut on his arm. It was from a piece of glass on the beach, deep and quick. Stan hadn’t meant to steal the spotlight, but he couldn’t look away from the red, even as the world started to spin and black dots filled his vision. He had the distinct memory of telling Ford, “ _ I feel dizzy _ ” before there was a gap. The next memory he had was him on the couch, his Ma’s face above him. 

Stan decides, however, that dealing with people that have lost consciousness is worse. 

Fiddleford had hit the ground hard, and Ford had said  _ Position him on his back and check his breathing. You should also lift his legs up to return blood flow back towards his heart, and loosen any clothing that could constrict breathing. _

Really not wanting to touch his clothes, Stan only did the first half of the instructions. There had been quite the bang as Fiddleford fell, so Stan was checking the back of his head when he jolted straight up, breathing heavy and looking around.

“Hey, relax.” Fiddleford jerked his head towards Stan and his eyes widened more. Stan hoped there was at least some silk still in him, as he tried to make a more peaceful world. One where fighting brothers and uninformed roommates didn’t exist. “Or you’ll just faint again.” 

Though still not trusting Stan (Stan could tell with the familiar feeling the racking eyes sent through him), Fiddleford did seem to see the reason in that, looking down and deepening his breaths. A few moments pass, Stan can hear a bird caw from outside. 

Then, “Who  _ are _ ya?”

Back in sixth grade was when the Crampelter thing really started. The boy must have injected testosterone over the summer or something similar because once the first day of middle school passed, he got big. Wasn’t afraid to shove Ford into lockers or smack his books to the ground. Things escalated day after day and the day that Ford came home with a black eye was the straw that broke Stan. The next day at school, Stan had marched up to Crampelter and punched him as hard as he could. Stan ended up with fingers that felt nearly broken and his ass kicked, but that was the leverage that allowed Stan to get some boxing lessons. Over the years, boxing had turned into a way to relieve stress and eventually survival. But in the beginning it wasn’t. It had been to protect Ford. 

Bruises and bloodied noses, all wasted away.

A sigh. That’s all he has left. “I’m Stanley, Ford’s twin brother.” 

His hands. The same ones his Ma would trace with her long nails and proclaim world-altering adventures in his future. Laid out to be dissected. All five fingers and nothing more. 

“I’m sorry.”

Surprised, Stan stares at the suddenly distraught man. Maybe Fiddleford hit his head harder than he thought-

“Fer not knowing who ya are.” 

Stan snorted. Ah, it was simply southern hospitality shining once again in all it’s golden glory. This man has so much kindness in him, he probably created all the stereotypes himself. “That’s hardly your fault.” Stan stands up and helps Fiddleford up, who still seems wobbly on his feet. “Anyway, I should get going. There  _ is _ a reason me and Ford don’t talk.”

“Wait,” Fiddleford grabs his arm and it seems to be both parts stabilizing and halting. “Ya can’t jus’ leave.”

“I haven’t seen my brother in over five years. And I definitely don’t want to surprise him.” Stan could picture it. Putting up balloons and a banner across the ceiling. Popping little confetti cannons as Ford walks through the door.  _ Hey Ford, it’s me! Your brother that ruined your life, remember? I already used your shower and razor, but I just let myself use even more of your stuff. You don’t mind, do you?  _

A gasp escapes from the other man, a big and ugly thing darting out.. “Five years? Tha’s horrible! Ya have ta stay.”

Another sigh, one that sent pain through his chest. Oh yeah, his ribs were bruised. Probably should get those checked out soon. “Like I said, Ford hates my guts. I’m probably the last person he wants to see.” Every word he said weren’t things that have had his voice before, but they were there in his head. Sticking like some parasite to every surface, bringing wrathing symptoms of his throat tightening, eyes burning, and ugly thoughts. Ones that had been buried but liked to resurrect themselves. 

“Family is more important than any petty feud y’all have,” Fiddleford crossed his arms, and because he made keys that could bend any will, knew to add, “Ya can consider stayin’ as payment fer me helpin’ ya.” 

There were clear holes in that argument. But, Stan recognized a dead horse when he saw one, so he shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, but ya have to get me bus tickets after so I can go and get my car, and  _ you _ get to tell Ford I’m here.”

Fiddleford seemed to bounce back into life, shooting a smile to Stan before bounding out of the room, returning quickly with a small boxish thing that had a large antenna sticking out of it. “This is a telecommunicator thinga-majig I whipped up for when Ford goes out on his own! I press this button, an’ Ford can hear my voice! He has one on his too, and it can work up to twen’y miles-”

“So,” Stan’s well-versed in nerd babble. If he didn’t cut it off then, it could have gone on for days. But, maybe that was better. Delay the actual talking to Ford part. “It’s a telephone, but not in a box?” 

The nerd’s eyes seemed to brighten even more. “Yes! We can call him now.”

It happens too fast for Stan to process: Fiddleford pushing the button and bringing his mouth close, muttering a calm, “Ford, ya there?” That was Ford on the other side of that phone, existing in the same place as Stan. Surreal in the same way you watch old home videos of yourself, Stan felt outside himself. Expecting nothing to happen. Because there’s no way. Stan knows probability better than the back of his hand. There’s absolutely no chance that Stanley Pines was about to see his brother, Stanford Pines, the one’s project he ruined, for the first time in over five years. There’s-

“ _ Hello? Fiddleford, what’s wrong? _ ” 

Stan hadn’t realized he’d forgotten what Ford’s voice sounded like. It was deeper than he remembered. But, he had been seventeen the last time Stan saw him. A child, not even out of high school. Stan could just about picture him, holding the big antenna near his face, in the middle of scribbling notes or reading a book, laying down and settling for the night. That had been something hard to get used to- sleeping by himself. Stan had shared a room his whole life. Used to the snores and wobbling of the bunk beds as Ford moved. He always liked to stick his foot up and push Ford’s mattress until Ford stuck his head over the side and stuck his tongue out, laughing. On rare occasions, Ford would send down a paper, through the crack between the beds and the wall. A scribbled note of what he was reading about, plans for tomorrow, a joke he liked, anything. And Stan would giggle and whisper his response, sticking the notes behind the wood planks that held Ford’s bed up. On the road, Stan tried to replace those with the sounds of cars driving past his, and a car seat that couldn’t go far back enough. Meaningless things he convinced himself were okay. 

“Something, ah, popped up,” Fiddleford shared uneasy looks with Stan, “So, ya needa come back home tonight.”

“ _ Really? _ ” Ford sounded annoyed, in the way that would have him raising an eyebrow and releasing air out his nose. “ _ Because the things here could truly be revolutionary! The machinery here could help tremendously with the gateway and I almost have the language cracked- _ ”

And because Stan was an idiot who loved to gamble and push the limits, he took a breath. And maybe it was also the fact that he could, that compelled him to act. The fact that he  _ could _ talk to Ford forcing him to actually do it. So, feeling the familiar soft threads pushing between his teeth like floss, he let the silk run from his lips, “Hey, Sixer.” 

He could feel the water trickle in, pooling around his feet. He really hopes there won’t be any flash floods, dragging him kicking and punching back to the bottom. Far, far below. 

There’s a silence, as heavy as water, pushing down on the whole word. Stan can practically see Ford’s gears chugging at this confounding variable. Ford had always been the person to play chess, plan out the whole game before it even started. Well, Stan was sitting here and adding checker pieces to the board. 

“Stanley?” His voice was mostly breath, muffling through the static of the device, “ _ Is that you? _ ”

“Yeah,” Stan’s throat is desperately trying to close up, tightening with every heartbeat that passes. “At least, since the last time I checked.” He gives a weak chuckle that’s met with a silent room.  _ Jeez, tough crowd. _

“ _ Stanley, I-”  _ Stan could only imagine what Ford would have followed that with before he cut himself off with a sigh. “ _ What are you doing here? _ ”

Stan sends a glance to Fiddleford, who is smiling, despite everything. “Your buddy Fiddleford found me, but, uh, why don’t you come back here so we can actually talk?” Stan didn’t mean to end that in a question, but inviting Ford back to his own home felt a little weird. 

“ _ Oh, ah, alright. I should be home in a couple hours. And Stan, I am expecting some answers. _ ” There was a quick sound of movement and then a buzz and Stan could tell that Ford was no longer on the call.

Suddenly very tired, Stan reached a hand out to the wall. The shower had made him feel a lot better, but that call seemed to suck the life out of him, leaving him feeling his injuries in full force. 

Fiddleford pats him on the shoulder, ‘C’mon, lets get ya some grub.” 

The kitchen was cluttered: jars with careful cursive labels spilling out of the cabinets, plants made residence in the window sill, and the table was filled with half-filled papers and notebooks, various pens skewed to the side. Fiddleford opened one of the cabinets and Stan saw a smattering of mugs taking up the entirety of the shelf, each and every one seeming to be adjourned with cheesy science “jokes.” The cup of coffee that Stan was handed was warm, even though it seemed closer to the evening time. But, Ford had started drinking coffee young, so Stan wasn’t really surprised.

Quickly, Fiddleford cleared a spot at the table for Stan and left a quick meal of eggs and toast, taking some for himself as he sat across from Stan, setting his plate on a stack of notebooks. 

The silence was awkward, but Stan was too busy dealing with the panic of seeing Ford to really care. That night, when he was just seventeen years old, the concrete had been cold. Damp, from a rain earlier in the day, wetting the jeans that would then go on to be ripped to shreds in the following year, when he was running through a back-woods forest as dogs chased him. It’s felt like for the entire time, the five years and then some, he hasn’t been able to get a decent night of sleep. Most of the nights are spent wondering if the world he used to know is still turning. Ever since he got kicked out, he’s been stranded on his own planet, the oxygen or something being different than he’s used to because for some reason he  _ could not  _ settle, but he was nothing if not fucking adaptable so he was breathing it anyway. Stubborn, to keep breathing in the first place, but rolling with the punches. 

The bits of Ford’s life he’s received from his Ma were mere morsels to the starving man he was. Stan knew that Ford went to college, was granted a whole bunch of money, went to Oregon, built a house, and was now researching something unique. But… Stan didn’t know anything that  _ really  _ mattered. For example: Did Ford still prefer toast in the mornings? Did he still like to celebrate with jelly beans after figuring out a hard problem? Was he getting enough sleep? Was he still drawing? Has he had his first kiss yet?  _ Is Ford still a virgin?! _

That last one sent a shiver through Stan. He did  _ not _ want to think of Ford like that, but they were brothers,  _ twins _ , shouldn’t that be the kind of thing they tell each other first? Laughing and teasing, going out to get milk shakes to celebrate. 

But it was just little stuff like that. Things Stan used to know, but didn’t anymore. He didn’t know Ford anymore. 

Suddenly aware of the way he was mushing his eggs around, Stan looks up to see Fiddleford watching him. He clears his throat, “So,” He scrambles for a question and goes for the easy route. “How’d you and Ford meet?” 

Of course, Fiddleford brightened and instantly launched into the story. “Firs’ day! We were jus’ randomly assigned roommates. Bonded over our love fer DD&MD.”

“Oh yeah, Sixer used to play that game all the time.”

“Tha’s a cute nickname.” 

Stan shrugged, abandoning his fork and crossing his arms over his chest. “Made it for him because he’s always been weird about his hands. And kids are jerks.”

Chuckling, “I don’t think we shook hands fer the whole firs’ year!” Fiddleford relaxes more in his seat and Stan can’t help the small smile.

“Heh, sounds like him.”

There’s another silence that lulls, and Stan tries to take a bite of food, but it sends shooting pain up to his forehead where the new gap in his mouth is, so Stan stands up. “I’ll, uh, do the dishes.” He grabs the plates and the pan and starts washing; but, as soon as he’s done with the first one, Fiddleford appears with a towel and starts to dry. 

“Hey, you cooked.”

“It’s better helpin’ than jus’ sittin’ and watchin’ ya.” 

Once they were done, Stan let Fiddleford check his injuries as long as Stan gets to pick what they watch on tv. Fiddleford was applying a bandage to a part of Stan’s arm that looked like it got some road burn when they heard something at the door. The sound of a key in the lock, twisting. 

Briefly, Stan could feel Fiddleford squeeze his shoulder. Maybe as reassurance. Maybe as more of a lifeguard (if the sinking feeling is any premonition.) 

Stan can hear the door swing open and then what sounds like various heavy bags hit the ground. The doors shut, soft against wind coming in, but maybe that’s the sigh that comes quickly after. Exactly one second passes before there’s footsteps. Boots against wood. 

As suddenly as he was gone the first time, Stanford appears in the doorway. Crude lines of curls that have met his hand one too many times. Hydrocarbons, nitrogen, sulfur, and oxygen pouring from his lips kept in a straight pressed line, from the creases between his eyebrows. Paraffins are practically visible in the air, vibrating and heating the air around him, boiling and rolling off like waves. His six fingers, tight on the jamb, conduct the electrons into barely controlled manic energy, thickening the empty space, clogging Stan’s throat and settling in his stomach, heavy. 

“Stanford.” He’s standing, but doesn’t really know when he did that. The tv is still playing but no sound registers in his ears. 

“You ruined my life, Stanley.” Stanford’s voice, teetering on the edge of anger and betrayal. “Why are you here?” 


	3. petroleum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> siblings do have a tendency to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight warning: this is the chapter that earns the "mild language" tag. 
> 
> the song that was on repeat while writing this was "i don't love you" by mcr, don't let that scare you....

The world coming together today, as it is, has just been a convoluted game of chess. 

One side of the table, the white pieces, was whatever higher power there was, snapping fingers and shaking hands to bring things into creation. A strategic plan, deciding when particularly you wanted the dinosaurs to begin and when the pawn needed to be sacrificed. The other side, the black pieces, was what had already been created. Reacting to the white’s movements, trying to figure out the strategy, even attempting to outwit and see ahead. Nobody knew which side they were on, if you were a pawn of someone making the decisions, you just hoped that you would stay on the board by the end of it. 

Bill Cipher told Stanford they both existed on the white side.

“We’re the one making the decisions,” He had said, between sips of tea and reading through a book. But this was Ford’s mind, so he wondered what the book was. He’s looked in one before and it was a memory, the first time he met Fiddleford in their advanced physics class. What memory was Bill looking at? “Whatever we want. We have the power for change that people out there kill each other for. They’re drowning in a river, and we’re walking on the shore.” 

They had become friends faster than Ford had become friends with anyone. Bill had a way of speaking and acting that Ford couldn’t help but be comfortable with. The sly jokes and reassurances. A laughter that was too loud in the best times but gave him a nostalgic longing for home. Bill knew his way around a bet, a deal, a game, anything to have it turn out in his favor. He divulged this information to Ford, forfeiting their chess games for poker. He had billions of years of knowledge under his belt and he let Ford be the lucky person to pick it apart. In return, Ford laid out all his knowledge on the table. Somehow, miraculously, Bill didn’t judge him. They were brought closer and Ford found that he could trust Bill more. 

(There was also the fact that Bill reminded Ford of Stanley so much it ached his chest, feeling like each individual rib was suddenly all squeezed towards his center.)

It had been after a day filled with equations and studying specimens, during a night of howling winds and pestering gnomes when Bill brought up Stanley for the first time. Slipping a thick tomb from between two galaxies with his thin fingers, Bill blew the dust off the cover with lips that formed over his eye and a glint that Ford couldn’t quite see. The dust had been building up for years, as Ford could never find something to clean it with nor did he ever have the motivation to do so. His time was taken up by his studies and living his life, so the book was cast to the wayside. 

Without saying anything, Bill had opened the memory, displaying a random conversation the twins had on the swingset somewhere in their early teens that had decayed into meaningless. 

Tired, Ford shook his head. “What are you doing with that?” He was tired of opening the same wound over and over. At this point, he can’t tell if it’s healed. 

“Stanley Caryn Pines,” Bill hummed out, flipping through the pages. “No wonder you hate him! I mean, look at this guy!”

Bill displayed the book out, similar to how Ford’s Ma would show the pictures in the book she would read to Stanley and Ford when they were too young to read themselves. The memory projected itself out like a movie screen, so Ford and Bill could watch. A sixteen year old Stan was standing looking sheepish as Ford saw himself yelling at Stan for stealing.

Maybe it’s instinct causing Ford to speak next, something about protection regarding twins hardwired into his DNA. “He was young. He didn’t know any better.” 

Rolling his singular eye, Bill sighed. “And you’re still making excuses for him!” Briefly, a picture of Stan playing his paddle ball on the couch as Ford comes home from the science fair flashes. “And it’s not like Stanley gets any better over the years!”

In all the time he’s known Bill, Ford has only seen Bill do this once. He lifted his hand to his hat and reached in, the surface rippling as Bill appeared to be digging around for something. Moments later, a bluish triangle emerges in Bill’s grasp. On the front is a screen, displaying a Stan that Ford has never seen before. Long hair, the beginnings of facial hair, laying on the ground and spitting out blood as the man above him says, through a thick accent, “  _ You have to learn your lesson from trying to take from Rico, hermano. _ ” 

The screen flickers out and Bill returns it to the inside of his hat. “Your brother and you were just destined to be on opposite sides of the game.” 

Ford looks down, seeing a star shoot off in the distance. “You’re right.” 

“That idiot ruined your future! Did he really not realize that staying with you could have been the best financial decision he ever made? Like, you’re a genius, Sixer!”

He’s smiling now, sharing it with Bill. “He lost the opportunity to be brothers with the genius who’s going to change the world, not like he helped that at all. He’s just hindered me every step of the way.”

It is this conversation that Ford remembers when he sees Stan. 

“You ruined my life, Stanley. Why are you here?” 

Stanley achieves the same look as when he was sitting on the concerte, all those years ago. Young, but threaded with the throes of life, pooling eyes cast downward enough that they both should be drowning. Gives Ford an out of body feel because how could he be the one causing these feelings? To his brother, no less. 

They still looked like twins, despite everything. In spite of everything. But where Ford lacked the bruises and stains of red, Stan lacked something deeper. The way his eyes never stopped moving. Maybe it was direction. 

Opening up his mouth to speak, Stanley was promptly interrupted by Fiddleford, a bystander in their past haunting them. 

“I found ‘im bloodied in the middle of the road. I couldn’t even recognize ‘im.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, nodding, voice soft. “Wanna tell me why your best friend didn’t even know who I was?” Stan’s voice was gravelly. It seems that he hasn’t dropped his smoking habit.

But it was so like Stanley to turn the conversation around, to put blame back on Ford, that Ford had to laugh. “You really think I wanted my best friend to know about what happened? Stanley, why are you here?”

“Ford, it was an  _ accident,  _ one that I’m sorry for _ ,”  _ A huff of breath escapes Stan, maybe something for control. His fists clench at his sides, however. 

“Was it an accident that you couldn’t handle me moving away? Your one source of personality and talent, leaving you to drown.” Ford takes a step closer, clenching teeth. Stan is continuously dodging the question, answering the ones he chooses. “Now tell me,  _ why are you here?  _ You couldn’t care for my accomplishments before, leaving when it suited you.”

“Are you seriously trying to blame me getting kicked out  _ on me? _ ” Stan takes a step closer and Ford can see how little control is left. A volcano, about to explode. “You left me behind, it was supposed to be us forever,  _ You  _ ruined  _ my  _ life.” 

A constant in high school had been considering how his own choices would affect Stanley. He couldn’t participate in the club he wanted to because it would happen at the same time as Stan’s boxing practice, and so Ford wouldn’t have a ride home. He couldn’t study ahead so he could graduate early, because Stan would still be at school. He couldn't even be in the  _ electives _ he wanted to because Stan wanted to take woodshop together. Snipping Ford’s potential, grabbing all the loose ends, and tying them together at the hip. They became one identity and it robbed Ford of the hours and hours of work he put into his future. 

Voice low, bogged down from their weights together. “You ruined your own life.” 

Stan takes exactly three deep breaths before yelling “AH!” and pounding his fist against the table, knocking some papers to the floor. It was the latest gnome study, something about their hats, scattered. “Who even fucking CARES that you didn’t go to West Coast Tech?”

He gestures vaguely to the space around him, both arms waving manically. “You have a house, you have grant money, you get to research whatever shit you want, you have a best friend that can actually keep up with you, you don’t even have to have a real fucking job, and you want to say your life is  _ ruined? _ ”

Ford opens his mouth to respond, but it seems like Stan is not finished talking. “You want to know why I’m here? You  _ really  _ want to know? I had been involved with a  _ drug cartel _ so I could get enough money to actually rent a motel for a while, when I wanted out. So the top guy finds me and puts me in the trunk of his car, so I have to  _ chew my way out _ , so your little friend,” He points to a wide eyed Fiddleford, “can find me left for dead in the middle of the road. I didn’t  _ mean _ to come here, Stanford.” 

“Wait,” Ford is reeling, latching onto one part, “You’re saying you're  _ homeless? _ ” 

Life outside of home for Stan had always been pictured as Stan having a rough week or maybe weeks but able to shmooze into a nice paying job, staying with a friend for a while. Settling in an apartment that didn’t get cleaned enough, just like their shared room, in a high-rise city with late nights and sneakish smiles. Stan always landed on his feet, their Ma always said he had  _ personality. _ So, what would happen if he  _ didn’t  _ land on his feet?  _ Thrown out on his back instead. Didn’t even have a high school education. Didn’t have any friends. All alone.  _

Stan takes a long second to stare at Ford, mouth open and whole body oddly still. Letting Ford realize now how much Stan had been moving, the shaking of his hands, the tapping of his foot, eyes scanning the field, constantly in motion. All halted to raise an eyebrow at Ford. “Jesus shit, Stanford. Do you know  _ anything _ about the real world?” 

“I- uh,” Ford didn’t know anything about the real world, did he? He went straight from home to a college that was paid for, then to a house that was paid for that he could barely keep running without Fiddleford around. Meanwhile, his own twin brother was bloodied and bruised and  _ homeless _ as a direct result of Ford. But, Ford still couldn't find any words to say. 

However, Stan doesn’t see this as a problem, continuing with not as much anger as before. “The entire time I’ve been out there, you never did anything. Not when Pa first kicked me out, not in a week, not in a month, not in a year, not in five years. Nothing. Stanford, I was  _ happy _ for you.”

The anger seems to have seeped out of him, being replaced with a watery sadness. “I was happy that you got into West Coast Tech, I was just angry, and stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Ford says on intinct, still unable to form much proper thought.

Stan huffs out a merciless laugh, “Yeah, right. I was angry at you for not  _ communicating _ with me, God. It felt like you were just going to get up and leave me in Glass Shard to work at the dock. It felt like out of nowhere I was ‘suffocating’ and dragging you down.” 

Months and months of feelings had boiled over into Ford exploding on Stan and Stan suffering the consequences. What did Ford get? He got the degree he wanted, a best friend, and was able to research whatever he wanted. He was  _ happy _ . 

And... Stan wasn’t devoid of talent. Ford can remember a little boy sitting on the pier and drawing comics, but Ford getting annoyed at Stan because  _ Ford _ had started drawing _ first _ so it was  _ his  _ thing. Stan was an excellent boxer. Could handle any social situation. Sly hands perfect for magic tricks. Was an imaginative writer. Could give a shining smile to anyone who needed it. 

But, those were all stunted. Cut at the stem because Stan was forced to survive. Before Stan could truly develop as a person, really. As a result of  _ Ford _ . Because Ford didn’t know how to communicate how he was feeling. Because Ford didn’t even think to include Stan in his college plans. Because Ford didn’t stick up for Stan, despite the countless times Stan had done it for Ford. Because Ford didn’t reach out to Stan afterwards.  _ Ford was the one holding Stan back.  _

“You’re right.”

_ Sixer, buddy,  _ Ford hears Bill at the back of his head,  _ what are you doing? Are you really thinking about  _ forgiving  _ him? How can you even trust him to be so close to the portal, something so important? You know how he is. He likes to see you on the ground.  _

No, that isn’t right. Stan had always been the first one to sling an arm around his shoulder, point to his award, and grin. He was always  _ proud _ . It’s not like they got any validation from their father. Ford’s academic confidence came from Stan, with smiles and encouragement. 

“ _ What? _ ”

Ford frowned at Stan’s extreme reaction. “I said you’re right. I never said anything to you about how I was feeling-”

Holding a hand up, Stan stopped Ford mid sentence. “You’re just saying this because you feel bad for me.” Stan crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the floor. “You were all too eager to yell at me before you knew I was homeless.” 

“No, I- This is just what made me realize.” Ford took a deep breath and hoped that Stan would actually hear what he was saying. “I’ve had a phone this whole time and could've tried calling you. I should’ve. Our entire childhoods had you encouraging and protecting me. I held you back from becoming your own person and then expected you to be okay when I left. 

“I couldn’t let myself think about what would happen if things turned out bad when you were kicked out. You could always handle yourself, so I couldn’t imagine what would happen if you couldn’t. You’ve more than paid for your mistakes. I believe you that breaking my project was an accident, Stanley.” 

Silence stretches on for a few moments before Stan speaks. Quiet, resigned. “I don’t know if you are right - with the holding me back and stuff. I was never made for much. But I do know that you wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t homeless. What would you have done if I said I’d been living in a house with a wife and kids? Or, what if Fiddleford didn’t find me? You wouldn’t have reached out for what? A decade? Two decades? Or never?” Stan shakes his head. “You’ve never thought of me this whole time, why should I believe that’s going to change?”

_ He’s just trying to use you. Throwing out a cheap sob story to suck you of your resources, emotional or physical. I’ve seen millions of dimensions and a constant across them is that people don’t change.  _

“I’ve been forced to see the facts that I was arrogant to. And… I don’t know what would have happened if Fiddleford didn’t find you. Luckily, that didn’t happen and we are here now. The least we can do is try and be better.”

Stan looks up quickly, a flash of anger behind his eyes that surprises Ford. “You haven’t even said  _ sorry _ .” The anger dissipates and Stan is left looking hollow. He looks to Fiddleford, still making home in the shadows of the room, “Look, I’ve talked to him, can I get that bus ticket now?”

“Wait!” Suddenly desperate, Ford grabs Stan’s arm. “You can’t leave yet. I have- I  _ want  _ to make it up to you because,” He swallows thickly, “I’m sorry. I know it’s too late. But, can I try to show you?”

Stan still isn’t looking convinced, with the glances toward Fiddleford still. So, Ford adds, “I want to be brothers again. Can you at least wait until tomorrow morning?” 

There’s still a heavy silence that follows, with Stan looking around the room. But Ford has already laid all his cards on the table, so he lets it continue. 

Then, there’s a gruff release of breath. “Fine. I’ll stay the night. But I can’t guarantee anything more.”

And Ford finds himself smiling, cheeks feeling just a bit stiff. “Great!” He turns to Fiddleford, who’s now smiling too, more of a part of the room. “We’re going to clean the extra bed. I had left some of my plants on it to see which ones took to the darkness the best.” 

“Jeez, some things never change, do they?” Stan gave a nervous chuckle after the tease, but it gave Ford the same feelings of their childhood, so he had to join with a more real laugh. 

“I guess they don't.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clarify, when bill reaches in his hat and takes out the smaller triangle, bill is showing ford a memory.

**Author's Note:**

> writing this has brought me more appreciation for my amazing siblings 🥺🥺  
> guys, go out there and give your siblings some love (whether that be a text, a punch, or a hug) 🥺🥺 
> 
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
